


Lucky at Cards, Unlucky in Everything Else

by BabyCharmander



Category: Grim Fandango
Genre: Broken Bones, Friendship, Gambling, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 02:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11326668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander
Summary: After several lucky wins at poker, Manny finds himself in a very unlucky situation. He quickly learns why you don't meddle in the affairs of desperate souls in Rubacava... and they learn why you don't mess with Manny.





	Lucky at Cards, Unlucky in Everything Else

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, it is 2:30 in the morning but I'm posting this thing.
> 
> Quick note: I know it's... never really stated or implied in the game, but for some reason I'd always assumed that Lola had worked for Manny at some point? So in case you're confused about a few paragraphs in this fic, that's why. (The unofficial novelization has her working for him at one point too, so I feel at least slightly justified in my assumption, eheh.)

 

It was probably their last game for the night, and the river was left unturned on the table.

Manny tried to keep himself from looking too relaxed, but the slight buzz of alcohol and the sight of two queens in his hand and one at the table didn’t make that easy. Exhaling smoke from his nasal cavity, he regarded the four other men seated at the table.

They weren’t anyone he’d seen before today—he’d deliberately gone to the other side of town just to get as far away as possible from the soon-to-be Calavera Cafe and all the paperwork it entailed. While he knew a lot of the big names and usual faces in town back around the docks and the racetrack, the guys that had joined him for poker were new to him. He’d learned their names over the course of the evening, at least.

Across from Manny, King sat stooped over his hand, glaring at the cards hard enough to practically burn holes through them. He didn’t look so big hunched over the table like that, but all six-foot-eleven-inches of him was quite a sight to behold, even when he had been striding up to the table to join the game.

By contrast, Victor’s presence was not diminished at all when he sat. The enormous man—both once-fat and once-muscle—seemed to refuse to look at his cards, keeping them covered with an enormous skeletal hand. Whether that meant he had a good hand or a bad one, Manny couldn’t be entirely sure, but given Victor’s luck so far, it was probably the latter.

Sitting comfortably next to the wall of a man and to Manny’s left was Checo, who held his cards tightly and tapped his finger at the table—an obvious tell, but he didn’t seem to care at this point. The vest he wore had probably looked nice at one time, but was marred by grease and oil stains. Earlier in the night when anyone was actually up for pleasant conversation, Checo had mentioned the odd jobs he’d been working, which explained the quality of his garments.

Finally, Whelan was staring intently at his hand, more to avoid the gaze of the rest of the party than anything else. He sat to Manny’s right, and Manny admittedly felt a hint of satisfaction at _not_ being the shortest one at the table for once. Whelan looked out of place around the others, the freshly-dry-cleaned suit he wore and the cigar in his mouth suggesting a bit more financial stability than anyone else at the table.

A sharp _CLACK_ accompanied by a curse that was half-speech, half-spit broke the silence. Whelan nearly dropped his cards as he leaned away from King, who was now looming over him. “Are you gonna get on with it or _what_?”

“Relax. He’s not hurting anything,” Manny said. He’d felt so at ease that he hadn’t realized how long Whelan had been taking. Maybe he shouldn’t let himself get too comfortable, but he’d definitely needed this break after the stress back at work. “Let him think it over.”

“It’s _poker_ , Calavera. It ain’t rocket science!” King snarled. “Some of us want enough money to hitch a boat off this rock _this year_ , not however many years this shrimp decides to take—”

“Stop threatening him, eh?” Victor’s hard gaze rested on King, who slowly began to coil back into his chair and grumbled. “There’s no need.”

Whelan took a shuddering drag from his cigar, only to wind up swallowing the smoke and hacking into the sleeve of his suit. “O- _okay_!” he wheezed, desperately trying to regain his breath. “A-all right, I raise!” And with that, he shoved a few of the bills in front of him into the pile at the center of the table.

Manny gave a hum of interest, though his sentiment wasn’t shared with the others at the table. Checo bit his knuckle, Victor stared, and King let out an exasperated expletive.

“Fine! _Fine_! You know what?” King sputtered, haphazardly shoving his money forward. “All in!”

Well, this had taken an interesting turn—especially since, if Manny was remembering right, everyone but him was evenly matched as far as money went. He glanced at Victor, who stared for a moment before firmly pushing his cash into the pot. “Me too. All in.”

Heaving a defeated sigh, Checo wordlessly tossed his remaining funds into the pile.

That left Manny and Whelan again. Manny took a moment to think over the situation—he’d won most of the hands tonight, and three of a kind wasn’t bad. There was a chance he could lose, sure, but it wouldn’t be too bad of a fall if he lost the money he bet. They already had the money ready for the club, and the money it made would definitely cover any losses.

“Sure, I’m in,” he said, finally adding his own money to match the others’ bets. Said other players immediately tensed up, then looked to Whelan, who was shakily looking from his hand, to the pot, to the cards on the table, and to his own money and back. He looked like he was about to keel over.

“O-okay, I’m in. L-let’s get it over with!” And with that, added his remaining money to the pot.

That was everyone. After a couple glances around the table, the men turned over their hands.

King, as it turned out, had been bluffing—his best card was a ten. Victor had a pair, Checo had two pairs, Manny had his three of a kind… and Whelan was one card from a straight.

Oh.

Uneasy, but still keeping his poker face, Manny followed the others in turning to Checo, who had been the one to start the game in the first place.

“Well, gentlemen, here we go,” Checo muttered, turning over the final card.

If Manny had still had a heart, it would have jumped. As it was, his poker face finally broke into a genuine grin.

“ _NO_!” came a despairing wail to Manny’s right as Whelan scrabbled worthlessly at the final card—the fourth queen. “I-I just needed a ten!”

“Well you got one right _here_!” King snarled, throwing his cards at Whelan, who flinched away. “What _is_ this bull—”

“This _always_ happens,” Victor muttered, tossing his cards down and leaning back.

“I know it does, pal,” Checo patted Victor on the shoulder (or as close to it as he could reach), but his eye sockets were kept on Manny. “Guess it’s yours then, Calavera.”

“Guess it is,” Manny said, reaching out to scoop up the money. A sudden movement made him look up—Victor was holding King’s arm, which looked like it had been outstretched to reclaim his money. The look on King’s face made Manny repress a shudder as he quickly stacked the bills and shoved them into an inner coat pocket.

“No, no, no, I-I needed that…!” Whelan whimpered, chewing on his phalanges. “My wife’s gonna kill me!”

“That’s gambling, _ese_ ,” Manny said, stubbing out his cigarette into the nearby ashtray.

“Y-you’ve gotta understand—we’re leaving on a boat _tomorrow_.” Whelan was wringing his tie at this point. “I-I need it to—”

“Then why’d you _gamble_ it?” Checo muttered.

Manny silently agreed—he felt even less sympathy for the little man, if it were possible. These were the kind of people who’d be gambling at his future roulette tables, anyway—it wouldn’t do good to go feeling sorry for the people who would help him earn a living here.

“I-I was so sure I’d win!”

“Nothin’s sure in poker, eh?” Victor said, shrugging, but looking no less sullen. He had let go of King’s wrist, and the tall man was oddly silent.

Manny, meanwhile, couldn’t resist jokingly adding: “Nah, not unless you mark your cards.”

It took him a moment to realize that hadn’t been the wisest thing to say. All eyes were on him, and he quickly grabbed another cigarette, hastily lighting it—and probably looking more suspicious in the process. _Darn it_. “Not something any reasonable person would do in a friendly game of poker though, eh?”

Three of the men were eying him, while Whelan was peering at the cards more closely. Mercifully, Checo broke the silence. “No, not really.”

“Yeah, good thing no one here’s a cheater,” Manny added, his smile going a bit strained. “Anyway, it’s getting late. I’d better be heading back to my side of town—don’t want the girls wondering where I am. Well, see you later.” With that, he slipped out of his chair, fighting the urge to run.

“Ah-dee-ows, _amigo_ ,” came a growl from King.

Manny managed to avoid shooting a glare back at the tall man—he was done with them. Even so, he could feel the four sets of eye sockets still boring into him, even as he stepped out the door.

The cool, humid sea air that greeted him was a relief after the stuffy, smoke-filled atmosphere of the bar. The night was clear, as it had been for the past few days now—a nice break from the fog.

Not that the clear weather made anything more peaceful. This was Rubacava, after all—its days _began_ at night. The neon lights of a dozen casinos, bars, and nightclubs were glaring through the darkness, clashing jazz and classic rock strains echoing through the streets whenever the doors opened. Then there were the souls, some wide-awake, some half-drunk, stalking and staggering up and down the streets, either engaged in boisterous conversations with their companions or else silently watching everyone around them.

Not the prettiest sight, nor the prettiest sounds. Manny could feel his headache coming back; he took a drag from his cigarette to stave it off.

The sound of suddenly-raised voices made him whip his head in the direction of a nearby casino—a bouncer demon was throwing someone out, yelling something about owing money.

_It doesn’t matter if it’s already paid, Manny—we haven’t got half the paperwork filled out yet!_

_But the restaurant owner already jumped on a ship! How are we supposed to figure this out?_

_I dunno, but if we don’t get this done soon, this place_ won’t _be payin’ for itself, because it’s not even gonna exist._

_SLAM!_

Manny shook his head, noticing that the bouncer had shut the door, leaving the angry soul it had thrown out to stomp away. Well, some distraction this evening had been—a few hours to relax at a bar, and he was right back to thinking about the mess that awaited him back at his future nightclub. If it was ever going to exist in the first place.

He had to get away from this noise. Maybe he could take some side streets, away from the nightclubs—it’d be a longer way back to the other side of town, but if it meant more time away from Lupe’s over-the-top perkiness, Lola’s ranting over the paperwork, and Glottis’s general blundering, he would take it.

Slipping through an alley between a bar and a hotel, he began a different route back home. The streets were darker and quieter here, a relief from the the cacophony closer to the waterfront. Maybe now Manny could think without getting a headache, hopefully.

Part of him felt a little bad for thinking about his employees so harshly. It wasn’t as though he hated any of them—far from it. Lupe usually knew how to cheer him up, Lola was a sweet girl when she wasn’t stressed out, and Glottis was his friend—as much of a “friend” as someone could be in the underworld, anyway.

_Glottis! Where did you get that?!_

_I bought it! What kinda fancy club would this be without a piano?_

_What good is a piano without a player?_

_But Manny—_

_You gotta_ think _before you do this kinda stuff,_ mano _! We haven’t even started renovating this place yet!_

_...Sorry, boss._

Hijole _, it’s one mess after another._

_Y’know, Manny, if you want, I could—_

_No, Glottis, you’ve done enough for tonight. ...I need a drink._

Sighing, Manny tossed the butt of his cigarette to the ground. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but after getting into a fight with Lola over the paperwork in his office, coming downstairs to see an expensive piano sitting in the deserted restaurant was enough to set him off. At least Lola he could expect to be competent (a bit too competent—if it had been just him, he would’ve fudged the paperwork and hoped no-one would notice), but Glottis…

Well, he was a demon that was made for driving, and not much else. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea to give him half the ownership of the club, like they’d been planning. He really shouldn’t be depending on him too much.

He shouldn’t be depending on anyone, really. This was the underworld, and nobody here was a saint.

Nobody except for one person, anyway, but he still hadn’t found her yet. ...And he probably wouldn’t, if he couldn’t get his name up in lights because he couldn’t get his nightclub built due to some stupid paperwork issues—

This was not helping.

Manny stopped, rubbing his forehead with one hand and fumbling to find his lighter with the other. So going somewhere quiet to be alone with his own thoughts had been a bad idea—go figure. Maybe he _should_ head back to the main strip, or at least walk along the shore.

As he drew out his lighter and a new cigarette, he turned to head back to the more populated streets.

Something snagged his collar.

His immediate thought was that he’d somehow got his coat caught on a hook somewhere, and he reached back to free himself.

His phalanges brushed against warm bone and fabric.

Cold shooting through his marrow, Manny scrambled to pull away, successfully dislodging himself from his assailant’s grasp. “What the—”

The hand snagged his wrist this time, making him drop his lighter and yanking him into the alley. “All right, buddy, hand it over.”

His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark, but he instantly recognized the New York accent. “ _King_?” he blurted. Had he been stalking him since he’d left the bar? How had no one noticed? ...How had _he_ not noticed? “You know, when I said I’d see you later, I didn’t actually _mean_ it.”

“Right, just like you didn’t mean it when you talked about _marking your cards_.” Gripping the front of Manny’s suit, King hoisted him into the air so their eyes were level, and Manny’s legs were dangling a few feet off the ground. “I _know_ you cheated in that game, you lying scumbag!”

Manny clawed at King’s wrists, trying to pry his hands off of his coat. “Agh—I didn’t _cheat_! That was luck!” he grunted, digging his fingers beneath King’s.

In response, King’s grasp tightened. “How’s _this_ for luck?” he said, and punctuated the sentence by ramming Manny’s back into the wall.

Having no lungs to breathe with didn’t prevent Manny from getting the wind knocked out of him. “Get your hands off me—!” he wheezed.

To his surprise, King pulled one of his hands away, skillfully holding him against the wall with the other. “Sure, once I get the money you swindled off of me!” And with that, he slipped his free hand into Manny’s coat.

 _Oh no you don’t!_ Gritting his teeth, Manny snagged the intruding hand and grasped King’s little finger, giving it a harsh _yank_.

An explosion of expletives later, Manny was dropped to the ground. He managed to land on his feet, though the landing sent a jolt up his spine. While King was busy trying to reattach his pinky finger, Manny made a break for it, bolting for the street—

—and running straight into another wall.

Or at least, what _felt_ like a wall. “I thought youse guys were gonna get this taken care of?” it said, in an accent Manny couldn’t place, but recognized nonetheless. _Dios mio,_ King he could understand, but what was _Victor_ doing here? Had the two of them teamed up?

It didn’t matter—he didn’t want to stay to find out. He tried to slide past Victor, but the big man clapped a hand against his shoulder, holding him in place.

“ _That shrimp broke my finger_!” King shrieked in response. He stomped his foot as he finally shoved the bone back into its socket, resulting in another string of curses that would have probably made Velasco blush.

“Who are you callin’ a shrimp, _burro_?” Manny growled, twisting himself around to face the two men—both of which towered over him.

“We’re not gonna ‘burrow’ you anywhere if ya give us back our money.” There was no malice in his voice, but the way his grip tightened made Manny flinch. “I don’t like ta go bein’ mean, here, but ya play cards a little _too_ well, eh?”

“I _didn’t cheat_.” They probably believed him less the more he said it, but what else could he do? If he straight-up handed the money back, they’d see him as a pushover, and that wouldn’t go well for the image of his club. “You were the ones who decided to gamble your money away in the first place!”

King flexed his hand as he strode up to Manny, glaring down at him. “Blamin’ the victims ain’t gonna work here, _chump_!”

Manny’s gaze had been fixed on King’s eyesockets—he didn’t see the man raise his leg until his size 18 shoe swiftly connected with his gut. He would’ve doubled-over had Victor’s grip not been holding him up, so instead his head dipped and his arms clutched where his stomach used to be as he fought to regain his breath. As the pain briefly robbed him of his voice, his mind raced to figure this out. Okay, so pointing out the obvious wasn’t going to get him out of this. There had to be _something_ he could do without waving the white flag at these thugs…

“Here I thought you were a pretty reasonable guy, Manny,” came a new voice from somewhere deeper in the alley.

He didn’t have to wonder who it was. “Ah! Wherd’ja go, Checo?” Victor’s voice sounded far too jovial for someone assisting in a robbery. “Thought youse already here.”

 _Hijole_ , three of them. He wouldn’t have pinned Checo as someone who would pull something like this, but apparently tonight was full of surprises. “You’re making a mistake,” he wheezed, wishing he could sound a bit more forceful.

“No, I think that’s you,” Checo replied. While he didn’t step closer, he must’ve made a motion to the other two, as Victor marched Manny further down the alley and away from the street. Manny lifted his head, not recognizing his surroundings—it looked like the backlot of a restaurant that hadn’t been in operation for some time.

“See, Manny, we’re honest people,” Checo went on, finally approaching him. “Sure we’re not saints, but we’ve worked hard, haven’t we? Been through the forest, working to buy passage from here. Some of us have been here for a long time, man. I think we deserve a break, don’t you?”

The three of them were standing over him—Victor behind him with his thick phalanges still digging into his shoulder, King lurking off to one side and hunched like a vulture, and Checo directly in front of him. Three men, all thinking they had been wronged, teamed up against him. Manny’s metaphorical skin was crawling, but it wasn’t from King’s explosive anger, or Victor’s sheer size.

It was from the slight tinge in Checo’s voice, edged in desperation.

Manny was in trouble.

“Look, I agree,” he said, fighting to keep any trace of fear out of his voice. “But you’re still making a mistake. You may want your money back, but once Chief Bogen catches you—”

He could feel Victor’s rumbling chuckle against his back, and King degenerated into shrieking laughter. Checo merely stood back, arms crossed, and shook his head.

“ _Oh_!” King cried, wiping a tear from his eye socket. “You’re serious!”

Manny grinded his teeth. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s past midnight, pal,” Checo said, leaning back on his heels. “Every cop is out at either the tracks or the casinos.”

A shiver racked Manny’s frame—he was right. None of the police force would be out patrolling the streets when they could be winning a “lucky” streak at the slot machines and blackjack tables.

“Look, none of us want to hurt you, right?” Checo looked up at the others.

“Nah.” Victor gave Manny a more-than-hearty _thump_ on the back, and Manny couldn’t tell if he’d intentionally tried to bruise him or not.

“Speak for yourselves.” King swung his arms out in a wide shrug. “I wanna break his shins.”

It took all of Manny’s strength not to try to scramble as far away from King as possible.

“I-I don’t w-wanna hurt anyone…!”

 _You have_ got _to be kidding._

“I-I just want my money s-so I can go home…”

Checo’s head tipped back in exasperation as a fourth figure crept out of the shadows. “I told you, Whelan, stay back and let us handle it.”

“No one said anything about b-breaking any legs!” Whelan protested. “I-I just wanted my money back!”

An idea flitted through Manny’s skull, and he latched onto it. “You don’t have to do it this way, _amigo_ —if you run off and get help right now, I’ll—”

Manny’s feet left the ground. _That was a mistake_ , was all he could think before he was slammed face-first into a nearby wall.

“Oh? Youse gonna give _him_ his money, not us?” Victor sounded more hurt than angry, even as he ground Manny’s shoulder against the bricks.

 _Hijole_ , what was wrong with him? He’d been a salesman—it had been his _job_ to persuade people. Why couldn’t he do anything here? Why couldn’t he say a thing right tonight? What was he even supposed to _do_?

It was a little difficult to assess his options when there were stars dancing in front of his eye sockets, but he had to try. He could just straight-up give them the money (which was looking like the best option with each passing moment), but his stubbornness wouldn’t let him give in to these petty thieves, as much as his sheer terror wanted him to. He was pretty sure he’d ruined his chances of talking them out of it or calling for the police in any way, so those were out.

“See? _See_?!” King cried. “I told you he wasn’t gonna make it easy! Lemme tear his kneecaps off and we’ll see—”

“Nah, don’t do that. Let’s not get too violent, eh?”

“So _put me down_ ,” Manny said, voice muffled against the wall.

“Sure.”

Immediately Victor dropped him, and he fell to his knees. The pain in his face made him wonder if he’d cracked his nasal bone or something, but he forced himself to think past it. His hand was already itching to reach into his coat to just hand them the money and be done with it.

“Give us back our hard-earned money, friend,” came Checo’s voice somewhere behind him, “and we won’t have to do anything.”

Once again, he could feel their stares boring into him, but at least none of them were holding him in place this time. Shakily Manny got to his feet, turning to face them. Sure enough, they were all waiting for his action… or waiting to take action themselves if he didn’t.

Maybe he _should_ just hand it over.

Hating himself for it, he reached into his coat.

“There you go,” Checo said, taking a step closer and reaching out his hand. “We’ll leave you be if you just hand it over.”

Manny’s searching fingers brushed against something, but it wasn’t the cash he’d pocketed.

_That’s it!_

Grinning, he pulled the objects out of his coat. “Go on and take it, then!” With that, he tossed the stack out into the middle of the lot, and all four men dove for it. And Manny seized the opportunity to bolt back through the alley.

“W-wait a sec—”

“What’s… ‘Race through the Underworld on the Number Nine?’”

“THAT LITTLE—!”

He _knew_ those shoddy brochures would come in handy one day.

Now all he had to do was get back to the more populated streets, and he’d be in the clear. These four may have been desperate, but there was no way they’d be dumb enough to attack him in the middle of a crowd.

Except there was just one problem with this plan:

Manny had short legs, and King did not.

One hand caught him by the collar, and the other by the arm. “I’m gonna kill you, you lying piece of—”

His mind raced. He couldn’t talk his way out of this, he couldn’t run away… Other than handing these crooks the money they didn’t deserve, there was only one other option, and it was something he really wasn’t keen on doing. But between getting his lights punched out or letting himself be robbed blind, he didn’t have another choice.

King was dragging him backward toward the other three. He wouldn’t be able to take them all at once, so he had to act fast. He reached into his coat pocket again, this time for his scythe.

“Oh no, you’re not trying _that_ again!” King snarled, grabbing at his right arm this time. He wrestled with both arms, twisting them behind Manny’s back as Manny kicked and struggled.

“Let me _go_!” He tried to twist himself away from King, but that only resulted in the man’s tugging on him more painfully, sending a jolt through his bruised shoulder. Out on the street was the sound of cars driving around, but he knew there was no chance of them seeing what was going on in a dark alley.

“A’ight Victor, hold ‘im still for me.” King threw him backward, and Victor caught him by the arms—holding both wrists in one hand. Satisfied, King strode around to Manny’s front, reaching toward his coat again. “Try to break my fingers now, punk.”

Manny struggled harder as King reached into his coat. “Even if you rob me, it’s not gonna be enough to get you on a boat, _menso_!” he spat. He tried kicking at King, but the lanky man held himself out of Manny’s reach, so Manny pulled his arms harder against their restraints. “You wonder why you guys are stuck in the Eighth Underworld? It’s because you sink to stuff like this!” He could hear Victor growl behind him, but he didn’t care—he had nothing to lose at this point.

King’s brow furrowed as he yanked something out of Manny’s pocket—but not the money. “The heck’s this?” Checo drew closer, looking over the object with mild curiosity, while Whelan doubtlessly hung behind the two.

The sight of his scythe being taken by a stranger only served to make him more infuriated. If he’d still had blood, his face would have been red. “You don’t even _deserve_ to get to the Ninth Underworld if you’re still pulling this kind of stuff in the afterli—”

_CRACK._

Manny was suddenly very dazed. Something must have hit his head, he thought, but his skull wasn’t hurting. Nothing else was hurting more than they had been earlier, so what had— _his scythe_! What had they done with his scythe?!

“...Oh, oops,” Victor said, and released his arms.

Now that he could move again, Manny lunged forward to snatch his scythe away from King so he could assess the damage and clock him over the head with it.

...Why wasn’t his arm cooperating?

Dazedly he tried to flex his hand—it hadn’t fallen off, but his arm wasn’t moving right, and his phalanges only twitched weakly. It was also, he noticed, starting to hurt.

A lot.

“Ah.” Checo gave nervous laugh. “Well, that’s what you get for tickin’ off Victor there.”

“W-was that his _bone_? I th-thought you said—”

“Eh, forget this.”

_Clatter._

“Now let’s get back to…”

The voices and sounds around Manny faded into garble as a more pressing concern consumed his conscious thought.

The pain that had been rapidly building in his right arm fired from his ulna and radius up through his humerus and shoulder, overwhelming him as his legs gave out. He could hear a yell—his own?—as he dropped to the ground, though he could barely distinguish the shouting voices around him. Distantly he could feel someone—King, probably—frantically digging back into his coat.

 _No, no, pull yourself together,_ mano _, you’re being robbed!_ he thought, and tried to focus through the blinding pain that was threatening to make him lose consciousness. Weakly he reached out with his left arm to shove King away, but the movement was uncoordinated and sloppy.

“Found it!” King cried triumphantly.

And all Hell broke loose.

A wild snarl tore through the alley, followed by the screams of all four men. The sound made Manny’s marrow freeze—it reminded him of the demonic beavers in the forest, only this was even louder and more vicious, if that were possible.

Shakily he pushed himself up on his good arm, just in time to see a massive form with entirely too many teeth throwing itself at King. _Dios mio_ , it really _was_ a demon. How had it gotten into the town? Or had one of Maximino’s kittens gotten loose? It didn’t matter now—a wild demon and an untrained hellbeast were equally dangerous.

Out of the frying pan, and into the hellcat’s mouth.

He was going to die— _again_. He was going to die alone in some alley in the jaws of a hungry hellcat because he had been too frustrated to deal with a bit of paperwork and a player-less piano and tried to escape to the other side of town, where nothing was familiar and where he was surrounded by desperate, dangerous men. He was going to wind up one of those sad corpses on one of Membrillo’s tables, not because he was covered in flowers, but because he would be mangled beyond the point of recognition by a hellcat’s jaws.

He was going to die over something stupid.

He felt detached from everything around him—a feeling he vaguely remembered from dying in his first life—but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. He wasn’t sure how well he could wield his scythe with one hand, let alone his non-dominant hand, but heck if he wasn’t going to try.

Behind him came a noise like a dog shaking a chew toy. King gave a scream that broke into a yelp, accompanied by a _WHAM_ of something heavily hitting a wall.

Manny finally reached his scythe. He hadn’t realized just how nice it was to have two working hands until he tried unfolding the scythe with only one. He began to wedge his phalanges between two segments of the pole in an attempt to pry them apart, and his movements became even more frantic as the monster behind him let out an enormous bellow.

“AND _STAY OUT_ , YOU JERKS!”

It took him a few moments longer than it should have to register the voice. His frantic movements slowed, but he still found himself shaking.

“Manny? _Manny_!” Old sneakers pounded against the street as the demon rushed to his side, kneeling down. “Manny, what’d they _do_ to you?!”

Of course, Glottis was a demon. Of course he had the ability to act like one of his wild cousins, but Manny had never actually _seen_ it before. Seconds ago he was all fangs and fire, and now he was kneeling by Manny’s side, looking close to tears. It was hard to reconcile that both creatures he’d seen were the same.

Though maybe that was because he’d had his head bashed against a brick wall multiple times.

“Glottis…?” he gasped. Everything still felt surreal. “H-how did you find me?”

“You were out real late. I felt bad ‘bout the piano thing, and the girls were getting worried. I thought I’d take a drive around town, see where you’d gone, but I couldn’t find you! ‘Cept then I heard this awful scream, and looked where it was comin’ from, an’ saw your lighter on the ground, and…”

In spite of the pain that was making him feel dizzy, Manny managed a half-smile. “So you took care of those _burros_ , huh?” he asked, slipping his scythe back into his coat. The money was still there.

“W-well… I didn’t hurt ‘em _that_ bad,” Glottis said, flashing his fangs—this time in a nervous grin.

Manny wheezed out a laugh. “It’s good to see you, _carnal_.”

“You too, boss! I was so worried!” Glottis reached out, grabbing Manny’s right shoulder to pull him into a hug. But Manny gave an undignified _yelp_ , and Glottis pulled away, holding up his hands in defense.

“Careful, Glott,” he hissed, more from the pain than from anger, grasping his right humerus protectively. “They messed it up real good.”

“Ooh…” Biting his lip, Glottis craned his head to get a better look. “Can I see?”

Hesitating, Manny turned his head away as he pulled up his right coat sleeve, not wanting to see the injury himself. Glottis had to carefully pull his shirt sleeve back as well to get a good view of it, and Manny growled as it brushed against the break.

He focused on Glottis, who was looking at the injury seriously. At length, the demon nodded. “Okay. I can fix this.”

It took Manny a second too long to realize what he’d meant, and in that second, pain _shot_ up through his arm.

He was pretty sure he swore in at least three different languages, even though he was only bilingual.

Glottis swiftly let go of the now-set bone to grab Manny before he fell backward. “That better?”

Manny did not immediately answer, his body tense as he waited for the pain to fade to slightly more tolerable levels. He’d come all the way out to the other side of town and nearly gotten himself killed, because of…

“Glottis,” he hissed between grit teeth. “Listen to me.”

Concerned, Glottis tilted his ears forward and leaned in closer.

“You took a sharp turn—” he took a second to take a breath, holding his injured arm “—and I was careless, and fell off.”

Glottis’s ears drooped. “What’re you talkin’ about, Manny? You know I’d never let you fall off the—”

“I was _careless_ ,” he repeated, still gritting his teeth as he grasped his arm tighter, “and _fell off_.”

The gears turned for a few moments, then Glottis perked up. “Ooo _ooh_! I get it.” His massive head swung up and down in a nod, only to tilt to one side. “But… why don’t you want the girls to know?”

Manny let out the breath he’d been holding, still cringing from the pain. It wasn’t as bad now, but it still hurt like nothing else. “Those two would think this was _their_ fault.” He shook his head.

Glottis let out a derisive snort. “Well, it’s not _yours_ , neither. It ain’t _your_ fault some low-lifes decided to jump ya.”

That wasn’t true, but Manny was too tired to argue anymore. It was late, he was tired and sore, his arm hurt, and he’d feel a lot better being out of this alley and back at his apartment. But… there was one thing. “...Thanks for comin’ for me, _carnal_.”

Glottis gave a slight laugh. “Aw, no problem.”

Chasing off a band of criminals wasn’t exactly “no problem.” “You... really came through for me.”

A thought seemed to strike Glottis, and a grin split his face as he tipped his head. “That’s because you and I, Manny… are friends.”

It took Manny a moment to remember the words he’d said half-jokingly, when he and Glottis were still crossing the forest. But Glottis’s words were more sincere than joking.

If Manny had still had a heart, it would have sunk. The one he’d thought to be too dimwitted to be truly dependable, and he’d come for him when he was about to give up.

Before Manny could reply, though, Glottis rose to his feet, looking back toward the empty lot. “We’d better get outta here. I’m not sure those numbskulls won’t come back.”

That was a good point. Manny debated on trying to stand up on his own, but, after a moment, reached out with his good arm. Glottis took it without a second thought, hoisting him to his feet, and held a hand against his back to keep him steady. It was a comforting feeling after being dragged around all night.

They made their way out to the street, where the Bone Wagon was parked. Glottis carefully helped Manny up to his usual perch before seating himself behind the wheel.

Remembering something else, Manny spoke up. “Glottis?”

“Hm?” Glottis turned his head, swiveling his ears in Manny’s direction.

“Sorry for yelling at you about the piano thing,” he said, rubbing at his eye sockets. “I’m sure we can find a good player.”

“Oh, uh, about that.” Glottis twisted himself around in his seat to face Manny. “You know _I_ can play piano, right?”

Manny stared. And then he laughed, covering his face with his good hand.

Well, maybe he could depend on someone after all.


End file.
